


How to Confuse a Cat

by Squeakerblue



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Beta by Locktea, Bingo, He just doesn't use them, Lambert has Manners, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28999878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeakerblue/pseuds/Squeakerblue
Summary: Lambert? Polite? Apparently so.Written for the first BiKM BingoPrompt: Polite
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 85
Collections: Bard Bingo- BIKM Bingo





	How to Confuse a Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing locktea

Lambert  _ hated _ banquets. He especially hated being invited to them to be shown off like some oddity after clearing some lord’s land, like it was a better reward than cold hard gold. He always got his gold, but his politeness usually got him invited to the rigamarole. He could practically hear Aiden laughing at him on the way back to the inn. Served the pain in the ass Cat right that the invitation was for  _ both _ Witchers for the next night.

Aiden paled at the cream colored bit of paper, “I don’t… fuck. Cats don’t get these! I don’t have any idea what to do!”

Lambert rolled his eyes, “It’s easy. Make small talk, get them talking more than you, they love that. Don’t mention anything gory and start on the outside of the silverware and work your way in.” Lambert dug through his bags looking for the one  _ nice _ shirt he had, neatly wrapped in waxed muslin just for occasions like this. He hated banquets, but fuck if he was going to look like a slob and let them see him as nothing more than a common hunter. He was a Witcher dammit, they should show respect for the position.

“I don’t even have nice clothes!” Aiden sat on the bed and stared at the invitation. “It says, ‘clothing allowance at Bilford and Sons’? What the hell is that?”

  
  
Lambert lifted his head, “Oh?” He picked up his invitation and inspected it, “It means Earl Berrsan is paying for our outfits, and we can keep them after the banquet.”

“How do you know that?”

  
  
“See the little ‘P’ before the clothing part? It means permanent, so this Bilford will tailor our clothing. Probably something off the pre-made stuff, then taken in or let out, but fit only to us. Temporary clothing is fit, but not tailored and we get to keep it for the next time we need it. He didn’t short us on our pay, so he’s being… polite, I guess. It’s good manners to do that for specialty contractors.”

Aiden squinted at him, “How do you know so much about this? You told me you were a farmer’s kid, not a noble.”

  
  
Lambert flushed. “That’s true, but… uhh. Fuck. I found Geralt’s fucking knight chivalry books when he went out on the path. They were interesting, and I read all of the fucking things. It’s a useful skill to have!” He felt defensive, but it really was. He’d argue day and night with a farmer or alderman, but being polite to a noble got him far more than being his normal foul-mouthed self when it came to negotiating his pay.

“Come on, if we’re getting a free snooty, I’m-better-than-you outfit out of this, we should go now, so the tailors have time to work.” He grabbed Aiden’s hand and dragged the protesting Cat out the door.

* * *

The tailor proved… interesting. Aiden had clearly never been measured for anything but armor before, and it showed in how he twisted and made faces and nearly yelped when the tailor measured his inseam.

Lambert, on the other hand, was sorting through the pre-made but untailored items. He frowned as he felt one of the arms on a doublet. The tag read ‘Redanian Terrace Blue Wool’ but there was no way this was that wool. It was far too coarse. He peered at the stitching and noted the uneven and gapped stitching around the shoulder. He ran the arms of the doublet side by side and raised an eyebrow at the inch difference in length.

He checked several other items and found similar issues. He raised a hand and one of the younger tailors, just a teen, ran over. He was less skittish than Lambert had expected, but still wary. “Yes, Master Witcher?”

  
  
“Where’s the proprietor of the shop, the owner? I’d like to speak with him.”

  
  
“Uhh, Grandfather’s not here, he broke his leg a few months ago, but my uncle runs the shop, should I get him?”

  
  
“Hmm, no, your uncle orders the textiles? Does the sewing?” 

  
  
The boy furrowed his brow, “He does the ordering, but we do the sewing.”    


“You’re an apprentice?” 

  
“Yes, sir, just started last year.”

  
“Lad, I would like to speak with your Grandfather.” He picked up the doublet. “Two gold in it for you if you take me, and this to him.”

The boy's eyes widened. “I can do that sir! After all, the Earl sent you here, so we’re supposed to do whatever you need.” As he stepped away, his tunic gaped at the neck and Lambert grit his teeth at the obvious lash marks there. This uncle was most definitely not a good man, or a good shopkeep.

He told Aiden he was stepping out to go meet the owner and the hapless Cat nodded, letting himself be dragged around by a teenage girl half his size.

It wasn’t very far to the Bilford house, and the boy, Rian, knocked on the door and pushed it open, “Grandfather, a guest for you, the Earl sent him to the shop.”

“Ah, welcome!” A small, but steady older man sat on a stool at a tall table, a splinted and bound leg stretched in front of him. A pile of buttons on one side of the table and a pile of shirts on the other. Clearly still hard at work, despite his injury. “What brings you to my humble abode, good Master?” 

Lambert held out the doublet, “This does, Master Tailor, what wool would you say this is from? And what do you make of it?”

The man took the doublet, running his fingers over the wool with knowing fingers, over the braids and the stitching. “This is Cidaris Low Cut, a cheap and very inferior wool. I wouldn’t have this in my shop if you paid me. Low Cut is suitable only for the roughest of clothing, like blacksmith’s clothing that can take a beating. The design is Temerian, but the braid is a knock off of Cintran Tri-weave, the pattern is wrong, and the stitching is just… _atrocious._ Where in the world did you find this monstrosity?”

“Unfortunately, in your shop.” He handed over the tag that he’d instructed Rian to watch him remove.

Bilford’s face grew red, then purple, then white. “In  _ my  _ shop?!”

“Yes, among the items deemed suitable for attending a banquet held by the Earl. My partner and I received Clothing Allowances from his Grace, and I found this and many others like it. As you were specifically chosen by the Earl, I wanted to make you aware that something unusual was afoot.” Lambert subtly sniffed the air. The man’s anger and distress were all too real. He’d thought as much, as no noble would send his guests to an inferior tailor on his own dime, when he was intent on showing them off. Such a thing would be horrifically detrimental to his standing among the other nobles.

“Young man, no, Master Witcher, I must thank you for bringing this to my attention. If you would be so kind as to help an old man to his shop, there’s a son I need to wring an explanation out of.”

  
  
“It would be my pleasure.”

The look on the head tailor’s face, clearly the ‘uncle’, was priceless when Lambert assisted Bilford into the shop. He helped the older man into the wide stuffed chair by the counter and nodded. “My partner and I will be right outside if you have need of us.” 

  
  
The old man nodded and was polite enough to wait until the door closed before unleashing a string of profanity and rage that had Lambert impressed.

Aiden was shocked and confused but followed and raised an eyebrow at the torrent of paternal disappointment that seeped through the door. “So, what was all that about?” 

  
  
“The tailor was being ripped off by his son, trying to pass off inferior work as decent fucking gear. I was being polite. Besides, we can’t wear the shit that was being offered, it’s an insult to us, as well as the Earl.”

  
  
“I never thought you’d care about a noble’s feelings.”

  
  
“I do when he pays us well, and is paying for the clothing. Means he’ll likely hire us again, or another Witcher, and not short them because he wasn’t made a fool of.”

“I’ve never seen this side of you.” 

  
  
“Aiden, I’m a rude bastard, you know that, but even I know when being rude is too fucking expensive!”

* * *

The tailor was grateful enough to have his second son go digging in the stores to find actual good garments and they spent all night and most of the next day altering items to fit the two Witchers. 

Lambert attempted to leave a tip, but Bilford said saving his business was all he needed. Apparently the now disgraced son had huge gambling debts and had been skimming from the shop and buying cheaper wool to make up for it. 

Finally, the time for the banquet arrived and Lambert neatly slicked back his hair while Aiden tugged at his shirt collar one last time before they entered.

Aiden was amazed at the transformation in Lambert. His rude, angry little badger man was replaced with a polite, well spoken and  _ genial _ clone. He barely noticed the banquet itself, too intent on watching Lambert trick a noble lady into chatting about herself rather than him, or Witchering. 

It was like seeing the whole world, tilted slightly to the left. Aiden wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but he was  _ not _ going to forget it. 

Hours later, when the banquet ended, and they staggered out the door, just a bit more than tipsy, but not drunk, and headed back to the inn, Aiden couldn’t stand it anymore. He clumsily pushed Lambert up against a wall and sunk his nose into Lambert’s neck, sniffing for anything missing, added, something. Lambert wasn’t polite, he wasn’t nice. Something must have infected him.

“Oh fuck, Aiden, can’t you wait till we’re in the room?” He rocked his hips into the Cat. “Fuuuuck.” He groaned when Aiden nipped and licked at his neck.

  
“You’ve been weird. Polite. Don’t like it. It’s not you. Not my Lambert.”

  
Lambert laughed, “Oh, is that all?” He gave a feral smirk. “Let's get back to the inn, and I’ll show you just how  _ polite _ I can be.” 


End file.
